Consent

Consent is everything.

Consent is why my cunt is yours
and no one else’s.
your property. your toy.
To fill and to stretch, to kiss and to use.

Consent is why my cunt weeps
when you squeeze my throat.
Consent is why I sink to my knees,
and why I don’t panic when you fuck my face and make me gag.

Consent is why we can build
a whole universe inside a small room.
Our own bubble.
Our own rules.

Consent is why you can release
your brain along with your body.
It’s why my worries didn’t pass the threshold
when you carried me in here,
tossed me on the bed
and called me my whore.

Consent is why danger with you feels so safe.
Why your size and aggression feel so comforting.
Consent never leaves us.
It’s not a green light, flashed at go time.

It’s a continuum of noises, gestures,
utterances and trigger points.
Consent is the look I give you
when I am trying to cook and you bite my neck.

It’s the smile I spy when you push me
against the wall and I bang my head.
It’s the giggle I make when you rip my tights
and it’s the way I swear when your finger pushes into my ass.

Consent is using my body and my voice
to answer the question that’s asked a thousand times:
"Is this what you want?"
Yes, Daddy. More. Give me more.

Consent isn’t just boundaries – it’s exploration.
It’s why all my holes will fill with cum tonight.
Consent is why my friends playfully ask about bruises.

It’s why you can put my soaked underwear
into my mouth as you finger fuck me
and mock me for being such a dirty girl.
Consent. Is. Everything.